Three Years Waterside
by PeregrineTook
Summary: For Fela and Sim - but mostly Fela - an unexpected turn of events turns a trip to Tarbean into an exposition of Kvothe's tragic past.
1. Chapter 1

Hello! This is the first fanfic I've ever written. It might be the last, too (What a time-consuming hobby …). Anyway, I couldn't get the idea out of my head, so here it is.

_The Kingkiller Chronicle_ belongs to Patrick Rothfuss, whose ideas I am shamelessly usurping for emotional profit. In this case, imitation truly is the sincerest form of flattery.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

The rotten stench of Tarbean was stronger along the border of Waterside and Hillside. Fela walked ahead of Kvothe and Sim and focused on breathing through her mouth. She blinked the rain out of her eyes and stared numbly at the map in her hands, which was growing limper by the minute. She'd never admit it to the others, but she wished she hadn't taken charge when they'd first started exploring the massive city.

The ceaseless drizzle made being lost so much worse. She lifted the map in one hand, straining to read the lettering now smeared across the paper. The wind flared up at the same moment, catching the folds of the parchment and throwing it into the air.

She cried out in dismay, throwing out a hand to catch it. But it was too late-by the time her arm was fully extended, the map had already been shredded by the muddy bare feet of the pack of children running pell-mell towards the docks.

Fela choked back a sob of frustration. As much to cover her rising tears as anything, she retrieved the pieces of parchment. She tried for a few moments to piece it all back together, then gave up.

To his credit, Sim bore this newest development in the wretchedness of their state with all the grace of a duke's son. This was all the more endearing to her because he no longer looked anything like one. Water dripped from his sandy hair into his eyes, and mud caked his once-pretty suede boots. He clenched his teeth, trying not to shiver in the autumn dribble, and her heart nearly burst. His one hand went to her cheek in an awkward gesture of support. His other hand pulled his salt-stained cloak tighter.

Kvothe, whose wild red hair had flattened and darkened to the color of rust, didn't complain either. He just pursed his lips and maintained the air of long-suffering silence he'd adopted hours earlier. She'd offered him the chance to lead soon after he'd started doing this, but at the time he had just spread his hands in a helpless gesture and shrugged, as if to say "What do I know about Tarbean?"

This reminder of Kvothe's aberrant stoicism was the last straw. She turned to face the direction they'd come and opened her mouth to suggest they find the nearest inn. They could meet up with Wilem in the morning.

She was interrupted by a great, heaving sigh. Kvothe jumped down from his perch on a nearby wall, scrubbed his fingers through his hair, and started walking towards the docks. He half-turned, then, and cast a bemused stare in their direction. "Coming?" he asked. For lack of a better idea, they followed.

In spite of Kvothe's self-proclaimed unfamiliarity with the seaside city, he led them through it with all the unhesitant certainty of one raised on its streets. Oddly, though, he seemed to know the side streets better than the main thoroughfares. He stuck to the shadowy edges of the wider avenues and often took shortcuts through twisting alleyways with sharp turns. Once, he even had them scramble over a knee-high pile of granite shards. Sim and Fela exchanged glances as they struggled over the slippery heap, but said nothing. Occasionally, Kvothe would glare over his shoulder, as if daring them to say a word. So they held their tongues and clung to the very edges of Waterside as the sun fell towards the broken skyline.

They were hurrying, trying to outpace nightfall, when Fela heard a moan echo from the recesses of a side alley. She paused, wondering if the wind and rain were making her hear things that weren't really there. But no—there it was again. A mewling cry of pain, so quiet she was amazed she'd heard it at all. But piercing, too, in the way that it wrenched her gut.

She entered the alley warily. Sim and Kvothe followed.

A girl lay slumped against one wall. The shadows growing in the dying light nearly swallowed her tiny frame, but what light remained highlighted the skeletal peaks of her sunken cheeks and made a halo of her feather-light hair. She couldn't have been older than ten. Fela maintained her painstakingly slow approach, terrified she would scare the girl away. But she quickly realized that, no matter how frightened, the girl couldn't have run. Her breathing was shallow and labored, her eyes scrunched in pain. Fela paused in front of her, and they watched each other for a long moment.

The girl didn't look frightened. She looked … uncaring. Too broken at that point to do anything but surrender. Fela bent down to examine her, but Kvothe grabbed her arm and gently steered her away. "Let me," he said quietly. "Stand back and try not to make any loud noises."

Kvothe was amazingly gentle with the girl. He spoke in a calming litany as he approached, his words full of reassurance but no real substance. He leaned over her and started to perform a series of checks he'd no doubt learned in the Medica.

A few times, the girl cried out in pain. When she did, he would pause. "What what. Hush hush," he would whisper, smiling softly to himself, as if at a joke only he understood. "It's fine, everything's fine, you're going to be fine. Let's not do that again, shall we?" And then his fingers would drift to unexplored wounds, and he would fall silent until the next pained cry.

Fela watched him work, his expression fierce but his touch impossibly tender. She was accustomed to his acid tongue and quick wit, his sudden disappearances and his brooding silences. That was the Kvothe she knew. But the way he had been acting since they'd come to Tarbean … she almost felt she didn't know him at all. Was it just her imagination? The very air in Tarbean seemed thick with the burden of his secrets.

When Kvothe was finished, he padded back to where she and Sim stood at the mouth of the alley. The fear in his pale green eyes pulled her from her reverie. He spoke quietly, so that the girl couldn't hear.

"She's got a couple broken ribs and contusions all down her side. Probably a concussion. My guess is, whoever was chasing her dropped her with a brick, then kicked her when she was on the ground."

They stared at him, their expressions mirror images of horror. "Who would do that?" Sim whispered.

Kvothe glanced back at the girl. "Probably a guard."

Sim's jaw dropped. "You're not serious. They wouldn't! She's just a little girl."

He shrugged, as if indifferent. "She's a beggar. If it isn't again the law to beg Hillside, then nobody's told the law."

"But … why?"

There was fury hiding behind Kvothe's darkening eyes, but you couldn't hear it in his voice. "They were probably just looking for something to kick. That, or they thought she might have something to show for it. Beggars stupid enough to try Hillside can make a talent, but only if they make it out alive."

Fela shook her head. "You're not suggesting … I can't believe the City Watch would steal from the children. That's just too cruel."

Kvothe snorted. "Tehlu forbid. You're confusing the street children with people, Fela."

Fela opened her mouth then closed it, unsure what to say. How did he know all of this? The cold certainty in his eyes - she was afraid to ask. "What can we do?" she said finally.

Kvothe turned away. Before he did, she thought she saw a flicker of something odd, an expression she'd never seen him wear. Shame? When he finally spoke, the hesitance in his low voice was alien to her. "I know someone who can help. I'll take her. You two start walking that way –" he pointed "—and get rooms at the nearest inn. I'll meet you there."

Fela shook her head violently, just as Sim did the same. "No way," Sim said. "You're not wandering off alone, not at night. Not Waterside."

Kvothe actually laughed then, a dark, humorless chuckle. "I can handle it."

"We're not risking it."

His expression hardened. "Its not up for discussion, Sim."

"God's body, it's not like you can stop me. If I want to go, I'll go."

"You'll just slow me down."

"I won't either."

"You will too. You can't even climb."

Sim faltered. "Climb? Climb what?"

Kvothe cast his eyes around the wood and tile surrounding them. "Trees, what do you think? Look, Sim, it's this simple. If you can't climb, you can't come. I'm not hauling you through the streets at night. It's safer on the rooftops, and faster."

Fela chimed in. "I can climb."

They both turned towards her. "What?"

"I used to climb the buildings in the town I grew up in. It was a good way to get away from my brothers."

Kvothe shook his head stubbornly. "Be that as it may, Fela, you're not coming either. Half the street children in Tarbean rely on Trapis for food, and more. I'm not going to scare them away just so you can sate your curiosity."

Fela bristled. "'Why would _I_ scare them away?"

"In that dress? Stockings? _Shoes_? Tehlu, if you don't look like you'd go running to the Watch the second you saw a beggar … that, and the bolder ones would cut your purse before you made it halfway down the street."

"Oh." Fela paused. "Okay, then we'll go in disguise."

Kvothe stared. Sim positively gaped. "What?"

"Oh, don't look at me like that," she snapped. "Look, there have to be other children like her around. Kvothe and I can leave our purses with you, Sim, and find other kids to trade clothes with. We can even … " She paused and knelt on the ground. "… here …" She rubbed her hands in the wet soot coating the alley, then scrubbed it into her cheeks and hair.

A strangled noise burst from Sim's throat. In spite of the situation, she laughed. A duke's son, indeed. Kvothe simply frowned and held out his palms in protest. "Fela, I appreciate the gesture, but you're not …"

She stood, planted her feet, and crossed her arms. She resisted the urge to scrub away the layer of mud now drying on her face. "I'm coming," she said firmly.

Kvothe twitched awkwardly for a second, clearly on the verge of protesting more. Finally, he sighed. "Fine." He tossed his purse to Simmon, and Fela did the same. "Sim, get out of here."

"Why does she get to go if I -" He was interrupted by a whimper from the girl still lying on the ground. He looked down, his blue eyes widening.

"Go, Sim. Now. Fela, come on." Kvothe ran back to the girl and lifted her off the ground, placing his hands carefully so as to avoid pressing on her ribs. He strode towards the crumbling brick wall at the back of the alley. Like many of the others they'd passed through that night, it connected to another passageway you couldn't see from the street.

Fela waved to Sim in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. His silhouette waved back from the mouth of the alley, and she turned the corner.

She hurried to catch up with Kvothe, who was walking faster now. She was about to speak when he leaned over the girl. "My name is Kvothe. Hers is Fela. What's your name, little one?" After a long pause, the girl mumbled something back.

"Kell? That's a lovely name. Do you know Trapis, Kell?"

"mmm."

Kvothe smiled. "Good, Kell, that's good. We're going to take you to Trapis, okay?"

The girl in his arms murmured what must have been assent, because he cradled her head against his shoulder, glanced back to make sure Fela was following, and began to run.

His gait was oddly graceful. It took her several minutes to realize why. He was rolling his feet as he ran, so that that each step he took started at the very edge of his heel and ended at the very edge of his toes. It smoothed his movement somehow, protecting the wounded girl from the tremors of each step. Something about it reminded her of the mob of children that had blown past them earlier in the day, the moment they had lost the map, but she couldn't have said why.

A few streets later, they paused for breath behind a squat, well-lit building. It might have been an inn, but the combination of bawdy commentary from below and breathless moans from above suggested a brothel.

Kvothe crouched down and propped Kell against the wall. She didn't make a sound. Fela thought perhaps she had lost consciousness.

She watched in mute surprise as Kvothe grabbed two large potato sacks from a pile of trash behind the door and set upon aging them with a cold efficiency. He ground them in the dirt with a boot, shredded their ends with calloused fingers. He slipped out a narrow-bladed knife (where had it come from? It was too large to fit in his pocket) and cut gaping holes along the top seams. Then he stripped off his shirt-Fela glanced away, blushing-and folded it carefully, kicking off his boots at the same time and hiding them under a pallet by the door. He examined his neatly tailored pants, groaning to himself in quiet dismay before slicing them unevenly just above the knees. Finally, he slipped one of the sacks over his head and handed her the other, his expression unreadable in the near-darkness.

He turned away from her then to scrub his hands along the walls of the narrow passageway. He dug his nails into the brick, cursing when his thumb hit a rough patch. After a moment's consideration, he rubbed the drops of blood seeping from his finger into the bag he was wearing, and along one cheek.

Fela watched him out of the corner of her eye as she stripped down and tossed the bag (fairly long, thank God) around her thin frame. She froze in the middle of adjusting it, startled to realize Kvothe had been watching her out of the corner of his eye, too.

"Hey!"

He grinned. Covered in soot, crouching in the dirt, his expression was positively feral. "Sorry."

He retrieved handfuls of kitchen rags from the pile and handed them to her. "Wrap these around your feet," he explained. "You'd need to run barefoot on the street for a few years before your feet got tough enough to make the trip without."

She nodded and got to work, wondering at the strangeness of the scenario. What was strangest, she reflected, was how _not_ strange Kvothe seemed to find it. She tied off the last rag and looked up, frowning at Kvothe. He knelt before her then in filthy bare feet, looking for all the world like he'd just crawled out of a gutter. He tested the bindings, untying and rewrapping when necessary. When he finished, her feet were completely swathed in layers of cloth. "You'll thank me later," he said, glancing up.

She gestured at the rags. "Don't you need some too?"

He looked away. "No."

As he turned, the light pouring through the window of the brothel fell on his translucent skin, and she held back a gasp. A jagged scar nearly a handspan in length was carved into his thigh just above his knee.

He reached out to dig an apple core and the butt of a loaf of bread from the food scraps at the base of the rubbish heap. He stared at them for a long moment, then tucked them into the pocket of Kell's shirt.

He lifted her up again and turned back toward Fela. His eyes widened as he adopted a haunted expression. He started to limp, then, the foot of his scarred leg dragging behind him with every step. He moved quickly nonetheless.

She stared at his retreating back, too shocked to follow. She knew he was only playing the wounded animal, the desperate beggar boy. But it was an all-too-convincing act.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Running through Waterside was more tiring than Fela had thought possible. They dashed through alleyways and squeezed through corridors too narrow to even be called that. She learned how to use windowsills to access the rooftops, and how to use trashpiles to break her fall on the way back down.

In spite of the rags enveloping her feet, she sliced her heel on a broken tile not ten minutes into their run. Kvothe stopped to rewrap her bindings, turning them into bandages, and they pressed on. After that, every step shot daggers of pain up her leg. She set her mouth in a grimace and ran on in silence.

Kvothe stopped hobbling. Apparently, one cripple was enough.

They stopped running just after nightfall. Kvothe paused, facing the gaping mouth of an open doorway across the street. As they looked on, three children burst from the doorway clutching chunks of bread. They jostled each other playfully as they passed, breaking the silence of the street with fragile snickers.

Kvothe walked towards the doorway. His steps were hesitant, but there was a strange fire behind his eyes. Kell stirred in his arms and made a soft cooing sound.

He led Fela down a steep flight of stairs into a dank basement. As they descended, she ran her fingers along the walls of crumbling plaster and tried not to feel out of her element.

They were in the bowels of the city now. Everything here, from the buildings to the children, reeked of abandonment. It felt as if she had crossed a threshold, had entered a mirror-world, where the love and acceptance that had buoyed her throughout her childhood had been turned on its head. This place, like the raggedy outfits she and Kvothe wore, or the tremulous laughter of the boys they had passed at the entrance, seemed held together with cord spun of dreams and desperation. Still, there was fondness in Kvothe's eyes as they stepped past the broken door at the foot of the stairs.

Fela glanced around the open space, which was surprisingly large but sparsely furnished. Light from three mismatched fish oil lamps cast dancing shadows across the six sick beds—just threadbare cots, really—that lay against one of the walls. Five of the beds were occupied, most by the slumped shadows of children deep in slumber. As they approached the single unclaimed cot along the far wall, however, one of the children began to thrash madly, eyes rolling back in his skull and spit flying from his lips. Fela threw herself away from the cot, but there wasn't any need—the boy's wild assault was thwarted by thin ropes binding him to the frame.

Kvothe simply nodded to the boy as he walked past. "Ho, Jaspin," he said calmly. "Good to see you, too." He lay Kell down in the last cot and moved to stand in the center of the floor, facing the corridor beyond the large room and shifting from foot to foot expectantly. He seemed to be waiting for something.

They didn't have to wait long. The sound of slow, shuffling footsteps preceded the appearance of a threadbare elderly man in an equally threadbare cloak.

A toothy smile lit up his bearded face when he saw Kvothe. He shuffled forward, his arms extending. Impatient for their reunion, Kvothe closed the distance between them and wrapped the other man in a tight hug. "Trapis," he whispered, burying his face in the man's neck.

He held him for a long moment before pulling back. Even then, they stood close. Trapis placed a hand under Kvothe's chin and looked into his eyes, frowning slightly. "I really didn't think you'd be coming back," he said simply. "But since you're here, you can fetch some water and scrub the floors."

Kvothe smiled. "We're not here to stay, Trapis. We found Kell in an alley and thought we'd better bring her. She needs someone to look after her until her ribs heal. That is, if you're up for it." Kvothe glanced down. "How are your feet?"

Trapis waved away the question, shuffling towards the girl in the cot. "What what," he murmured, leaning over her just as Kvothe had earlier. "Tut tut. What trouble did you find, little one?"

Kvothe followed Trapis to Kell's bedside. "Trapis," he said, frowning, "where are the shoes I brought you?"

The older man waved again. "Rooney's been clamming for drabs. The spineburrows were cutting up his feet."

Kvothe gritted his teeth. "So you gave him your shoes?"

Trapis shrugged. "He was tracking blood on the floor."

Kvothe sighed and sat in silence while Trapis examined Kell. A few minutes later, the old man handed him a worn wooden bucket and shooed him up the stairs.

Kvothe returned with water. He dabbed Kell's forehead with a dripping rag before carefully rinsing and stitching her wounds. Although he sewed carefully and efficiently, there was no anesthetic and the cord was nothing more than a handful of spare fishing line. She fainted soon after he started.

When he was finished, he helped Trapis bind her ribs. Only then did Trapis look up at Fela.

"A friend of yours?" he said to Kvothe, his eyes twinkling.

Kvothe met Fela's eyes for the first time that evening. He seemed deeply uncomfortable.

"Trapis, this is Fela. She's a friend." He set his jaw defiantly. "Fela, this is Trapis. He's family."

Trapis ducked his head, trying to hide a blush.

"Very pleased to meet you, Trapis," Fela said solemnly.

He nodded. "And you, my dear." He shuffled towards the chair by the door.

Fela had thought they would leave soon after tending to Kell. Instead, Kvothe grabbed the bucket and headed back upstairs to refill it. When he returned, he lifted a second rag from the rim of the water barrel and knelt to wash the grimy floor.

Fela adjusted her shabby makeshift dress and sat cross-legged on the floor next to Trapis, watching Kvothe scrub. He had such delicate hands, and such a proud disposition–she'd never seen him so much as wash a dish. She wouldn't have thought he had it in him to kneel. But then, she'd never have thought he had once been homeless, either.

Seeing him there, on his hands and knees, dragging the filthy rag across the barren floor, she could almost imagine him begging for his supper. It wasn't in his nature, but acting was. She supposed it was just another part he'd learned to play. Scrubbing Trapis's floor was an act of love; begging had been an act of necessity.

She could see the leathery, scarred soles of his bare feet in the dim light of the oil lamps. Her feet still ached from one hour of running barefoot through the city. She thought of the years of pain he must have endured to develop those calluses, and had to swallow back a sudden well of tears.

Others came and went as Kvothe scrubbed. None of them paid her any mind, though many spoke briefly with Trapis before racing back to whatever hidden corner of the city they called home. Most of the children simply took bread from the table and left. One brought a loaf instead, announcing proudly that a baker had given it to him only three days stale. A few of the children borrowed the bucket from Kvothe to take one trip to the pump, leaving the barrel by the door one pail fuller when they left.

One of the boys grabbed a handful of bread and stayed, tucking himself tightly into a corner. He had the frozen, unseeing gaze of a fawn in a bowman's sights. He clutched the bread more tightly to his chest when he caught Fela watching him.

He ate quickly, as if afraid he might lose the chance at any moment. When he was finished, he wrapped his arms around his knees and stared at her warily, saying nothing. The intensity of his silence alarmed her.

"Poor boy," she said softly to Trapis. "Is he mute?"

Trapis stopped rubbing his feet and looked up with a puzzled grunt. "No. He can speak."

"Why is he so quiet? Did something happen to him? He looks … terrified."

"Traumatized," Trapis corrected. He returned to rubbing his feet, wincing often. Now that she was paying attention, she saw they were terribly swollen. No wonder Kvothe worried.

His words drew her attention back to the boy in the corner. "He's new to the streets, maybe new to the city. If I had to guess, I'd say he had a happy home not too long ago. He has the look of a boy who has known love, and has lost it through violence."

Fela's hands fluttered uselessly in her lap. Perhaps she should go sit with the boy? But what if she scared him away? Did he have anywhere else to go? "Will he get better?"

Trapis frowned. "Perhaps. Some do." He nodded to Kvothe, who was now scrubbing in a careful ten-foot radius around the boy's feet. "Kvothe did."

Another shock ripped through her as she tried to imagine Kvothe cowering in the boy's place. She had never asked how his parents died, and he never spoke of it himself. But how could she not have known? How could she not have even guessed at this dark shadow over his past?

Kvothe threw the rag in the pail and stood. He rubbed absently at the muddy dirt now coating his knees.

They watched in silence as three teenage girls scrambled down the basement steps and settled down in a corner by the door. To Fela's horror, two of them carried toddlers in their arms—both boys, Fela thought, but it was difficult to tell under all the dirt. One of the children was no more than two years of age. It started to cry as soon as it was set down on the damp floor.

Trapis shuffled over, handing the girls a ragged blanket. "Hush hush," he said, patting the child on the head. "Hush hush."

A sharp-faced, dark-haired girl balanced the other toddler on her hip, pulling a handful of coins from a hidden pocket and laying a few on the table. "They pay better for the kids," she explained to Fela. She spoke quickly, her words practically tripping over each other in their rush to leave her lips. "You can come with us tomorrow if you want. We're going to the Tarway. I'm Yelah by the way."

She took the blanket from Trapis and spread it on the floor. Another one of the girls, a dirty blonde with a boyish haircut, tugged on Trapis's robe as he passed. Her loud voice echoed in the quiet basement.

"Tell us a story, Trapis?"

Trapis sighed, lowering himself back onto his rickety chair. "I did promise, didn't I?" The girl nodded eagerly. The boy in the corner uncurled, turning his intense gaze on the old man.

Trapis scratched at his scalp idly. He frowned, deepening the creases that made him seem far older than he was. He tapped at the table and rubbed his feet, looking uncomfortable. The children at his feet twitched impatiently. "I might know one story," Trapis said finally. "But I think Kvothe has already heard it."

"Everyone knows more than one story," the dark-haired girl protested hotly.

"Then maybe you should tell one," Trapis said, smiling slightly.

The girl blushed. "I didn't mean -"

"How about I tell one instead?" Kvothe said suddenly.

Everyone turned to look at him. Trapis shook his head. "There's no need for that, Kvothe. I can tell my story, if you don't mind hearing it again."

Kvothe laid a hand on the old man's shoulder. "I could hear it a thousand times and never grow tired of it. But you don't look up for it tonight." He sat cross-legged on the floor, an arm's-length from the others. "Besides," he continued, favoring his audience with a sudden, brilliant smile, "I'm Edema Ruh. Telling stories is what we do."

There was a brief bout of scuffling and shuffling as the children gathered around his feet. Then, he began to speak.

He told the tale of a boy named Jax, who fell in love with the moon. It was a beautiful and sad sort of story, and he couldn't have asked for a more captive audience. They gasped and sighed at all the right moments. One of the girls even cried a bit at the end, out of sympathy for the caged moon. Beyond these small noises, though, there was complete silence. Even the toddlers stayed quiet, lulled into slumber by the deep timbre of Kvothe's voice.

Trapis's silence was different from the others. It was the stunned silence of one who had thought he understood someone, only to realize he understood not the first thing about them after all. Fela sympathized.

When Kvothe finished speaking, the silence surrounding them became complete. It enveloped them. Before anyone could break it, however, Kvothe continued.

His gaze met that of the boy in the corner. "I wrote a song once," he said quietly. "For my family." His irises paled to the color of dying grass, and he clenched his fists together to stop his hands from shaking. When he continued, his voice was no more than a whisper. "I should say, it wrote itself. The night I … found them."

And, head bowed and fists clenched, he began to sing.

He sang of fire and fear, of pain and despair. He sang out the broken, gut-wrenching notes of unexpected loss, the long mournful tones of abandonment. In that moment, his deep voice was a dark, harrowing thing. It held no pretense of hope.

It was the most beautiful, and the most terrible, song Fela had ever heard. It was haunting in its simplicity, its rawness.

When Kvothe finally fell silent, he lowered his face to his hands and wept. His sobs were echoed by those of the children at his feet, all of whom had lowered their own dirty faces in turn. The mute boy crawled out of his corner and into Kvothe's lap, clutching his shirt with tight fists. Kvothe rocked him gently, daring to glance up at Fela only when his own tears had dried. Fela turned away, quickly brushing away the tears still leaking from her own eyes. What right did she have to join in the mourning of those who had known true suffering? It was as unknown to her as Kvothe's stories of the Fae.

The other children quieted as the night dragged on. Eventually, they fell asleep cradled in each other's arms. Still, Kvothe rocked the mute boy, who continued to weep. "I know it hurts," he whispered, burying his face in the boy's fine hair. "But it gets better. I promise you that much. It gets better."

Kvothe rocked the boy until his eyes closed and his breathing deepened. When he was finally asleep, Kvothe lay him on an unused blanket near Trapis's feet. He watched the boy for a long moment, then stood.

He glanced around the room, now full of sleeping children. "We have to go," he said finally. He seemed sad to be leaving. Trapis simply nodded and stood to hug him.

Kvothe broke off the embrace eventually, and retreated to the foot of the stairs. "I'll drop by tomorrow to check on Kell," he said suddenly. "And to bring shoes."

"There's no need -" Trapis began again, but Kvothe silenced him by grabbing his hand.

"They need you, Trapis," he said simply. "You're not any good to them crippled, or dead." Then, pleadingly–"Please. It's the least I can do."

Trapis sighed his consent, and they made their way back up the stairs into the moonlight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Fela and Kvothe walked back in silence, neither daring to speak.

They paused on a walkway overlooking the ocean. The waves rolled in and out and in again, a glittering black mass reflecting the dazzling starscape. The silence between them deepened.

"You did it for him, didn't you?" Fela said suddenly. "The silent boy. You sang that song for him."

Kvothe looked out over the deep water. For a long time, he didn't speak. Finally—"He should hear it gets better."

She watched him watch the ocean, his gaze far away. She tried to imagine him smiling, and failed. She wondered if she had ever really seen him smile. Maybe happiness was just his newest act. "Does it really?" she said softly. "Get better?"

He paused, resting an elbow on the railing and resting his chin in his hand. "Sometimes," he said, absentmindedly rubbing his free hand against the chipped paint of the railing. "Sometimes I forget. For a while."

There was another long pause before he turned to her. Cautiously, he put a hand over hers. "Fela?"

"Mm?" His fingers felt rough and dry from scrubbing the floor. She looked up.

A thrill went through her when she met his gaze. She didn't know how to explain it. It wasn't sexual. It was … something to do with seeing him for the first time. Something to do with finally understanding.

"Thank you," he said. He took her hand then, and led her away from Waterside.


End file.
